


Between the walls

by Builder



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Avocados at Law, Fever, Flu, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Friendship, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson at Columbia, Motion Sickness, Seizures, Sickfic, Unrelated chapters, Vomiting, avocados at school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: A repository for my Daredevil drabbles.  Most will be sickfics.  All will be short.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I play 200-word fics on Tumblr pretty regularly, and I'll post my Daredevil creations here. Find me on Tumblr @builder051

The case is a bust, so they retire to the office with a six pack and a bad mood to share.  Foggy ends up behind Matt’s desk with the beer while Matt sits on the floor in the bathroom.  

“You win some, you lose some,” Foggy says through the wall.  “Why is that making you throw up?”

“I don’t know,” Matt chokes.  He flushes the toilet.  “I just…didn’t think we were going to lose.  I thought we had it in the bag.”  Matt would feel embarrassed to admit it, but he’s so far past that it hardly matters now.  

“Well, we’re a small firm.  A new firm.”  There’s a hiss and a pop as Foggy opens another beer.  “You want one of these?”

Matt unwinds some toilet paper to wipe his mouth.  “Nah, I’ll pass,” he says.  He’s not sure he can stomach the water to swill out his mouth. “But you better slow down, or you’re gonna throw up.”

“You underestimate my ability to chug cheap beer, my friend,” Foggy chuckles.  Then, “You sure you’re ok?  You want me to walk you home?  Or come in there and rub your back or something?”

“I’m not sick, Fog.”  Mat uses edge of the sink to claw himself to his feet. “Just guilty.”

“Well, I guess the jury did call us out on it,” Foggy says.  He laughs even though it’s not funny.

Matt turns on the faucet.  Then he laughs too. 


	2. Matt's unsteadiness reveals his headache

The first thing Matt does after he rolls out of bed is swallow two ibuprofen.  He balances the bottle on his palm and contemplates doubling the dose.  He’s an adult, and his head hurts to beat the band.  But that would mean swallowing again, and Matt’s not sure his throat or his stomach will thank him for it.  He can still feel the plasticky coating from the first round of pills clinging to his taste buds.  It’s all he can do not to gag.

When he gets to the office, though, Matt doesn’t have much of a choice.  The sound of a car alarm carries through the building’s front door and up the stairs, where it clobbers Matt in the side of the head.  He takes off his glasses and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.  Squeezing away the pain turns out to be ineffective, though, so he throws down two more painkillers and eases out of his chair to get a glass of water.

Matt’s almost back to his desk when Foggy’s flatfooted steps thunder across the landing.  “Good morning, my friend,” Foggy bellows, the gust of sound and coffee breath almost knocking Matt backward.  “Karen said she’d be in late, so it’s just the two of us this morning.”

“Hey,” Matt says grappling with his voice and wincing as the raw sides of his throat scrape together.  He takes a sip of water and forces himself not to cough.

“I have some new files we could go over, if you feel like doing some reading,” Foggy says.

“Hm, sure,” Matt replies absently.  He reaches for the doorknob to head into his office, but his hand closes on empty air, and he realizes too late that he’s about four inches to the right of his target.  Matt quickly corrects himself, but Foggy goes silent, and Matt knows he’s seen.

“You ok?” Foggy asks.

“Yeah, fine,” Matt says.  He turns the knob and pushes his door open, hoping the creak covers the gravel in his voice.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, wracking his brain for something to say.  “I know it’s easy to forget, but I’m blind, you know…”  

The joke doesn’t land.  “Yeah…” Foggy says.  “Yeah.  No.  What’s up?”

Someone on the floor below slams a door, and a bolt of agony shoots through Matt’s forehead.  Vertigo flares, and he claws at the door frame for support.

“Matt?” Foggy prompts.

“Headache,” Matt mutters, knowing there’s no hiding it now.

“Right.”  Foggy grabs Matt’s elbow and leads him to his desk chair.  “You sit here till you’re not dizzy anymore, and then I’m taking you home.  Savvy?”

“I’m fine.”  Matt sets down his water with a clunk, then folds his arms over a stack of papers and lowers his head.

“I really want to believe you,” Foggy sighs, “But there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary.”

“Evidence?”

“Are you really gonna make me spell it out for you, Matt?” Foggy asks.  “Cause I think we’re a little beyond this.”

Matt lets out a long, slow breath.  “Yeah.  I guess we are.”


	3. Matt bolts from the office and Foggy finds him in the alley

Matt knows he’s being rude, but given his current choices, he’s fairly sure he’s picked the preferable option.  Sitting in his office while Foggy and Karen talk to the client makes him look aloof at best.

Matt can hear Foggy’s neck pop as he turns his head to glare at Matt through the open door.  It’s almost funny that he thinks a dirty look is going to do any good.  If Matt was in the mood to play along, he’d recommend a chiropractor.  But with the way he’s currently feeling, he’s not in the mood for anything.

Every time he breathes, Matt’s stomach rises another inch or so into his chest.  He swallows hard.  It’s a gamble, a 50-50 chance the warm, overly bitter saliva will go down or send everything rushing back up.  With every passing second, the odds seem to be slipping out of his favor.

Still, sitting here praying for the best beats the alternative.  A small office and bad acoustics have given them the worst bathroom on the planet.  Matt doesn’t need extra sharp hearing to know exactly what Foggy, Karen, and a handful of clients have been up to between its four walls.  If he ducked in there to throw up, he’d reach roughly the same audience as he would if he stood on his desk and shouted to the heavens.

There’s only one other option, and the longer Matt sits, the more enticing it’s looking.  He could leave, just stand up and walk out the door and disappear until he either pukes or feels better or both. Thinking about it makes clammy sweat break out over Matt’s forehead and upper lip, and he instinctively fights the nausea, sucking in air until his chest expands to the limit, then slowly blowing it out.  Matt tastes bile, and a host of other flavors show up with it on his tongue.  Coffee.  Toothpaste. Pad Thai.  He struggles not to gag.

Bones creak and air moves through joint fluid as Foggy spares Matt another glance.  “Sounds good, Mr. Durgin,” Foggy says with false eagerness that’s clearly not for the client’s benefit.  “I think my colleague  _almost ready_  to join us.”

If Matt felt like he could open his mouth without spilling his guts, he’d apologize.  He’s well aware of how this is looking for the firm, but self-preservation is a bitch.  Maybe that makes him selfish.  The guilt adds to the sick weight in his chest, and hot, thick vomit starts to rise in Matt’s throat.  The charade is up, and he jumps to his feet.

“Alright, cool,” Foggy’s saying, pulling out the chair beside him with a scraping sound that almost punctures Matt’s eardrums.  He obviously thinks Matt’s finally getting with the program, and he makes his confusion known when Matt hurtles out the door instead.  “Dude!  What are you doing?”

Foggy’s shout carries onto the landing.  Matt realizes that his cane is still somewhere in his office, but there’s no time to do anything but run.  Sick explodes into his mouth, filling the space between his cheeks, and he barely gets out the back door and into the alley before it sprays everywhere.  Matt’s almost relieved his heart is thudding in his ears so he doesn’t have to hear liquid hitting the brick wall, the pavement, and the front of his suit at top volume.

Dizziness grips Matt as he gags again, and he reaches for the wall.  He probably looks like a stereotype of a blind man.  He’s glad no one is here to see it.

“Matt?”

Whoops.  Matt hears the door slam shut.  He wonders why he didn’t notice it opening, but the thought evaporates as he struggles not to give in to a third round of vomiting.

“What happened?”

“Uh,” Matt says, keeping one hand firmly on the wall and raking the other over his mouth.  “Nothing.”

“Yeah, you totally ran out here just on a whim and there happened to already be barf all over the place,” Foggy says.  Matt can sense the nervous energy coming off his friend, and he feels guilty all over again.

“Stranger things have happened.”  Matt shrugs.

“Right.  Just stop lying now, Matt.  It’s all over your—”

Another wave of nausea crashes through Matt’s sinuses, and he doubles over himself.  His throat burns as more vomit splashes on top of the mess already on the ground.

“Ok, ok,” Foggy thumps him on the back.

“Ugh.  Sorry,” Matt spits, struggling to detach strings of mucous from his lips.

“How about you’re done talking,” Foggy says.  “Ok?”

Matt catches he breath for a moment, humiliation bringing fresh heat to his cheeks.  “Ok,” he pants.  He tries to push down a sick belch, but a weak stream of bile comes up and runs down his chin.

“Jesus, Matt.  Why’d you even come in today?”

“You just said—”  Matt starts, deciding his jacket is a lost cause and using his sleeve to clean himself up.

“I know what I said.  I’m sorry.”  Foggy puts his arm around Matt’s shoulders, offering his broad chest as support as Matt straightens up.  “But you’ve got to go home.”

Matt’s not in a position to argue, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.  “But…we have a client.”

“Who would probably love to have another coffee date with Karen,” Foggy says.  “We can reschedule.”

“Sorry,” Mat murmurs.

“You know what, let’s go back to the previous arrangement,” Foggy chuckles.  “You’re done talking.”

Matt sighs.  Then he nods.


	4. Matt can't concentrate

When Karen steps into his office, Matt assumes it’s only to drop off files.  The sound of a stack of manila folders hitting his desk is a good indicator, and it’s at least the fourth time she’s made such a delivery this week.  

“Hm,” Matt hums his indistinct thanks, though he’s not paying attention to Karen at all.  His mind is out the window and three blocks over, where he can hear the distinct sound of a gun being pulled from a waistband.  

There’s crinkling money, the plasticky squelch of sweaty fingers on a ziploc baggie, and the too-fast breathing of a heavy smoker about to have a panic attack.  The gun hasn’t cocked yet.  Matt thinks the person’s about as likely to give himself a heart attack as he is to be shot.

_Gimme the cash!_

Matt stands up behind his desk.

“Ok, cool, did you want to come with me?” Karen sounds a little taken aback, but also eager.  Matt realizes too late he’s missed something.

“What?” He asks, keeping one ear on the drug-deal-gone-wrong.

“Did you want to come pick up lunch?  I was going to walk across the street to Thai Palace…”

The gun makes a threatening click, and the cash and the drugs crumple in a shaking fist.  Matt reaches for his coat and starts for his office door.

“Alright, I guess we’re going,” Karen giggles awkwardly.  “I didn’t ask Foggy what he wanted yet.”

The words are barely out of her mouth when Foggy appears in the doorway, blocking Matt’s exit.  “What did I hear about Thai for lunch?” he asks.

_Gimme the rest of the cash fucker!_

“Excuse me,” Matt says, trying to sidestep his friend.  The smoker’s breathing is up in the realm of hyperventilation now.  He’s going to need the hospital for sure, for one reason or another.  

Foggy catches Matt’s shoulder.  “Whoah, buddy, where’re you going?”

“Hungry, I think,” Karen says.

“No, I have to step out for a minute,” Matt says, listening as the barrel of the gun scrapes against a windbreaker jacket.  He doesn’t have time to spare now.  “I’ll be right back.”

“Really, Matt?  Right when we’re about to eat?” Foggy complains.  

He dances around Foggy and dashes for the stairs.  “I’ll be quick.  I promise.”  

He will.  He has to be.


	5. Foggy proves Matt has a fever

It’s been a game of theirs since college.  Long before Matt came clean about his enhanced senses, Foggy had come to know his ability to anticipate actions.  

When they come home after a night of drinking, Matt knows Foggy will need eggs and bacon in the morning, so makes sure to leave the frying pan on the stove and a bottle of ibuprofen beside the sink.  When Matt’s sick, he knows Foggy will try to take care of him, and he’s careful to never leave him the opportunity.

They’d been living together in the dorms for all of two weeks when Matt came down with the first cold of law school.  He was sitting with his elbows on his desk and a sea of crumpled tissues around him when Foggy’s hand had come close enough to ruffle the hair on his forehead.  

In a blink of an eye, Matt had thrown his forearm over his head and blocked Foggy’s wrist against his own.  

“Dude,” Foggy had complained.  “I just wanna see if you have a fever.”

“I’m fine,” Matt had said thickly.  Don’t worry about it.”  He could estimate his own temperature to the tenth of the degree, and figured he’d spare Foggy the concern.  

More then five years have passed, and Matt’s still not sure how it’s working out.  He barely gets through the door of the office, a Kleenex in one hand and his cane in the other, when Foggy barrels up to him.  Matt preemptively raises his wrist to forehead level, but Foggy just stands there and lets out a resigned sigh.  

“Honestly, Matt,” he starts.  “Why’d you come in?”

“New client,” Matt mumbles, stepping toward his office.  

“All the better reason not to share your germs with them,” Foggy says.  His voice distorts as he shakes his head.  

Matt shrugs and collapses into his desk chair.  “I’ll be ok.”

“Right,” Foggy says.  “If you don’t start to perk up by lunch, I’m gonna send you home.”

“I didn’t realize you were the boss.”  Matt pulls a stack of files toward him.

“Only sometimes,” Foggy chuckles.  

By 10:30, the throb in Matt’s temples is barely manageable.  At 11:00, he rests the side of his face on his folded arm and takes a slow breath, wondering if his aching back or flipping stomach is bothering him more.  He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.  

Something touches Matt’s forehead, and he jerks upright so quickly it leaves him reeling with vertigo.  “The fuck?” he breathes, though the situation is coming together.  

“I did it,” Foggy says triumphantly.  “And I was right.  You’re boiling, Murdock.  Time to go home.”

“Geez.”  Matt holds his head between his hands, willing the world to stop spinning.  “You could’ve given me some warning.”

“What, and let you jump away like you always do?”  There’s a shuffling sound as Foggy dumps files into Matt’s briefcase.  “Come on.  I’ll get you a cab.”

Matt reaches for his coat on the back of his chair.  He’s already lost today.  He may as well oblige.


	6. Matt has vertigo and needs Foggy to be his eyes

Matt meant to go into the bathroom and splash water on his face.  He didn’t intend to end up on his ass on the floor.  One second he was leaning over the basin of the sink, listening to the water rush from the tap, and the next, he didn’t know anything except that his tailbone hurt.

“Matt?  Buddy?”  Foggy raps on the door.  “What happened?  Did you fall?”

The sink is still running, and Foggy’s yelling.  They both sound far away, though.  Matt tentatively takes one hand off the floor to wipe the sweat that’s dripping down his temple.  His sense of balance immediately evaporates, and he slumps onto his side.

“Matt?  Say something.”

Matt lets out his breath and searches for the right word to express his predicament.  “Fuck.”

“I’m gonna bust down this door,” Foggy threatens.  

Matt’s about to tell him it’s unlocked, but his tongue is too slow and Foggy rattles the knob and figures it out himself.  “Oh,” he says as he throws the door open.  His dress shoes clatter across the tile, and he descends as a cloud of aftershave and pad thai at Matt’s shoulder.

“What happened?” he asks again.

“I…don’t know,” Matt admits.  The words bring on nausea, and he swallows hard to push it down.  “Just…dizzy.”

“Ok, uh, let’s get you off the floor, and then go from there.”  Foggy turns off the sink, then grabs Matt under the arms.  The sudden silence presses heavily agains Matt’s eardrums.  He struggles to orient himself in the room.  It’s only the stability of the floor beneath his feet that keeps him from getting lost as Foggy hauls him up.  

“Can you walk, or…?”  Foggy trails off, experimentally lifting his hands.  Matt sways, and he quickly grabs him again.  “Ok.  To your desk?”

“Hm,” is the best Matt can manage.  He shuffles his feet, his shoulder jamming into Foggy’s chest.  A sense of paranoia combines with the oppressive feeling of illness as they edge past the door frame and into the larger office space.  Matt wants desperately to avoid colliding with anything.  After a moment, he realizes it’s because his body aches.

“Chair’s behind you,” Foggy says.  They haven’t gone far enough for it to be Matt’s chair, and the whiff of perfume clinging to the old wood and papers lets him know that he’s at Karen’s desk.  

Matt slumps forward and buries his head in his folded arms.  Now that he’s still, the room’s decided to start swirling again.  “Thanks,” Matt murmurs, though he’s not sure Foggy can hear him.

“No problem, bud.”  Foggy pats him on the back.  “But I’m pretty sure we should be getting you home.”


	7. Matt's hypersensitive and Foggy breaks the fax machine

Matt knew from the second he woke up it would be a bad day.  He’d barely turned over in bed when he could taste his neighbor’s breakfast cereal and smell the diesel exhaust from an 18-wheeler making a delivery halfway down the block.  

The water in the shower was roughly the volume of a jet engine and felt like darts driving themselves into his back and shoulders.  He couldn’t handle the scent of his shampoo, so he’d just stood there until he couldn’t take it anymore and scrambled out from behind the curtain to grip the edges of the sink while his chest heaved.

Matt made it to the office thanks to sheer luck and a thermos of coffee.  He’s sure he looked like a fool holding it up to his face as he walked, but at least he didn’t have to see the stares.  The sound of passers-by cricking their necks was bad enough.  

Matt sits in his chair.  He holds his hands loosely over his ears to muffle its squeaks and groans.  Once he’s stationary, he’s still uncomfortable.  Matt can’t tell if it’s the nexus of his hypersensitivity or just because of it, but his head hurts.  His liquefied brain smashes repeatedly into his skull like a white-capped wave breaking over the jagged shoreline.

Within five minutes, Karen’s light footsteps ascend the stairs.  Foggy’s heavier ones follow a few seconds later.  Matt bites his lip until he tastes coppery blood and settles for swallowing his nausea as his officemates go through their morning rituals.  

“Morning, Murdock,” Foggy bellows.  

Matt inclines his head a couple millimeters.  Foggy probably doesn’t notice, but the motion is enough that Matt feels like he’s going to fall over.  He presses both palms to his desk to catch himself.  He’s grateful when Foggy moves on to do battle with the fax machine.  

There are a few seconds of crinkling followed by swearing, followed by–CLANG.

“What the fuck?  That’s never happened before?”

Everything in Matt’s head dissolves into uneven swirls.  Buzzing starts up in his ears.  Sourness pools under his tongue.  He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until his forehead hits the desk.  

“If you pull on the wires, of course it’s gonna fall,” Karen says distantly.

“But I do it all the time!”  Why is Foggy still yelling?  Karen can’t be more than a foot away from him.  Foggy has to smell her perfume.  Matt can smell her perfume, and his door is closed.

Not closed anymore.  The knob rattles and the hinges creak and a gust of knockoff Chanel and bodily warmth assault Matt’s nose.  “You ok?  Foggy dropped the fax machine.  That thing’s a brick.  I think it shook the whole building.”  A laugh.  It would sound like sleigh bells if it wasn’t so loud.

“I’m good,” Matt says, though his face is mashed up against a pile of notes.

“You sure?”  Karen steps closer.  The hairs on Matt’s neck prickle to attention.

“Yeah, don’t come any closer.”  Matt thinks about explaining, but his stomach twists again, and it’s all he can do to keep from vomiting.  “I…think I have the flu.”

“Aw, Matt.  Why’d you come in?”

Matt seriously wonders the same thing.  


	8. Matt falls in the office and Foggy's a bit concerned

Usually Matt hears Foggy coming.  But usually when he’s trying to calculate which way to fall in order to do the least damage, he’s not in the office.  He’s not immune to the fumbles of blindness; it just tends to take a a worthy opponent to get him to slip up.

It’s not a gangster throwing him a kick to the gut or an overambitious date with a six-pack of Heineken this time.  It’s a culmination of the more mundane aspects of life.  An impending rainstorm that changes the weight of the air on his skin.  Humidity that makes it feel like he’s breathing through a wet washcloth.  Too many hours spent in bed listening to the clock, which invariably led to too many shots of espresso in the morning.

Matt’s head swims, and he reaches instinctively for the edge of his desk to catch himself, but it’s not there.  A thrill of panic rushes up from his stomach as he realizes he has no idea where he is in space, and, more importantly, time’s up.  

He goes down face-first, his ear whistling past something solid before his chin hits the carpet.  Matt’s teeth clack together, sending shooting pains up his jaw.  He smells plastic and WD-40, and he realizes his nose is about an inch from the wheel of his desk chair.  It probably would’ve been safer to fall backwards, but luck seems to have been on his side, even if nothing else is.

“Oh my god.  Matt?  Are you ok?”  

The footsteps thundering across the floor vibrate through Matt’s skull.  Foggy grabs him under the arms, and vertigo hits again as he eases Matt off the ground.  Foggy arranges him on his knees, but Matt slips.  The side of his head rests against his friend’s chest where the quick, deep boom of his heartbeat makes him feel both safe and guilty.

“Sorry,” Matt mumbles.  “I just…”  He doesn’t have a good excuse.  He can’t remember what he was doing.  His face is hot, and he can’t tell if he’s nauseous or just embarrassed.

“Jesus, don’t be sorry,” Foggy says, a little breathlessly.  “I’m just…wow.  Did you hit your head or anything?”  He shifts.  Matt hears the creak in his neck as he gives him a once-over.

“Nah.  I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.  You’re bleeding.”  Foggy touches the tender patch of rug burn under Matt’s chin.  “Who knew shitty carpet was such a hazard?”

“It’s not,” Matt insists.  “It’s just…it was me.”

“You’re a hazard?”  Foggy laughs.  “Might be right about that one, Murdock.”


	9. Matt's carsick on his and Foggy's roadtrip

They’ve been on the road for an hour.  The highway is smooth, and the trip upstate isn’t horrendously long, but Matt’s still uncomfortable.  

If he’s honest with himself, he bypassed uncomfortable within the first 15 minutes.  Now he feels downright sick.  But if he slaps a label on it and says something out loud, he’s just going to feel worse.  Because that’s the way things work.

Apparently this whole trip is just how things work, too.  That’s what Foggy says when Matt asks him for the third time why they’re doing this.  “I don’t know what to tell you, Matt.  The college road trip.  It’s, like, a thing.  A proper noun.  You gotta do it before graduation or your diploma’s not legit.”

“That’s not true,” Matt mutters.  Nausea and petulance have an annoying habit of becoming the same thing.  Embarrassment for Matt and a thorn in Foggy’s side.

“You don’t know that.  There’s a secret list, like a scavenger hunt.  Road trip, check.  Fail an exam because you start the scantron on the wrong line, check.  Puke in the bushes outside a kegger,” Foggy chuckles.  “Double check.”

“Ok, ok,” Matt says, desperate to shut him up.  “But it would’ve been cheaper to take the train.”

“Again, you miss my point, Murdock.”  There’s crinkling from the driver’s seat, then crunching.  The odors of brown sugar and onion powder assault Matt’s nose as Foggy proffers the bag of chips.  “Want some?”

“No, thank you.”  Molecules of barbecue fall out of the air and stick to Matt’s tongue where they turn hot and sour.  His jaw feels heavy.  His stomach aches up to his chest, and his head throbs down to his cheekbones.  

Disaster’s coming, and there’s nothing Matt can do about it.  “Fog, can we stop?”

“Why?  It’s only like two more hours,” Foggy says, his mouth full.  The sound of him swallowing makes everything worse.  

“I… shit.”  Matt’s no stranger to self control.  He presses his spine against the seat, plants his feet on the floor.  He clenches his lips between his teeth and holds his hand over his mouth for good measure.  He gags, but the bile stays in his throat.  Matt hopes it’ll stay there; he can’t make himself swallow it back down.

“Really, Matt?  Fuck.”  The bag of chips hits the floor mat and spills everywhere.  The car swerves and Foggy stops it in the breakdown lane.  It’s too much.  Matt puts his other hand over his nose as well.  

The noise and motion blur as he retches properly.  Foggy gets Matt’s door open one second too late.  Vomit spills down the front of his shirt before Foggy grabs his shoulders and shoves Matt’s head down to his knees.  

“Ok,”  Foggy gives him a pat on the back.  Matt spits, trying not to imagine the bits of potato chip that now cling to his shirt.  “Sorry, bud.”

“Ugh.”  Matt experimentally lifts his head.  He does’t feel any worse, but it’s also no better.  “Sorry.  I don’t know.”

“Eh, it is what it is.”  Foggy’s shoulder clicks as he shrugs.  “Another item on the checklist, though.  Road trip puke?  That’s a formative life experience.”

It’s an experience Matt could definitely do without.  But he mumbles, “If you say so.”


	10. Matt flips out about his grades

“Matt, it’s one test.  One.  And it’s not even a test,” Foggy says, the paper crinkling in his hand as he jogs to keep up.  “It’s a  _quiz_.  Worth, like, a completely insubstantial number of points.”

“Yeah, but…”  Matt bites his lip and stops in the middle of the sidewalk.  “It was five questions.  I wouldn’t have passed if I missed two.  And I missed  _three_.”

“So?  You got an F-.  Everybody fails once or twice.”  Foggy pauses when they’re almost toe-to-toe, his breath puffing into Matt’s face.  He crumples up the quiz paper and claps Matt’s shoulder.  “It doesn’t matter.” 

Foggy should be right.  Matt’s heart shouldn’t be threatening to beat out of his chest.  “I’m going to fail the fucking class.”  His throat shouldn’t be tightening up, and his hands and feet definitely shouldn’t be tingling.  Disappointment is reasonable, but this is overboard, even for him.

“No, you’re not,” Foggy says.  “You know why?  Because you’re Matthew Murdock, and you’re going to hold onto this experience, even though you shouldn’t, and study harder, probably lose some sleep, and get a perfect score on every assignment for the rest of the semester.”

“But… no, I won’t,” Matt sputters.  “I thought…”  He had studied hard.  He’d already lost sleep.  And it had earned him a 40%.  “I need to drop the class.”  It’ll put him behind, maybe fuck up his financial aid, but if the type of dedication that had earned him straight As in undergrad leads to worse than failing in law school, maybe it really doesn’t matter.  Maybe he’s not cut out for this.

Matt rotates on the spot, trying to think only of the lines of sidewalk criss-crossing the campus instead of the lines of ball-point pen atop the trashed exam in his friend’s hand.  “Registrar’s office is north of here, right?”  It’s a bit unsettling that Matt doesn’t remember.  He’s not just losing his career dreams, he’s losing his mind.  Clammy sweat breaks out over his forehead as he tries not to panic.

“Ok, hold up.”  Foggy jams the wadded up paper into his pocket and grabs Matt’s upper arms with both hands.  “You need to breathe.  You’re taking this way to seriously.  You’re jumping to conclusions.”  Foggy pauses for a second.  “You look like shit, Matt.”

“Great,” Matt says under his breath.  His heart still won’t slow, and a bitter taste is growing at the back of his mouth.  He tries to step away, but Foggy won’t let go.

“I’m serious.  Just calm down.”

It doesn’t help.  It just proves there’s something wrong with him.  Matt’s disgusted.  His stomach roils, and he chokes down a wet belch.  “Fog,” he warns, trying to break Foggy’s grip again.  He has to go, to get to a bathroom or at least some bushes.

“No.  Stop.  Loosen up.”

“Foggy–”  Matt doesn’t mean to backhand him, but the body is difficult to control with nausea in the driver’s seat.  He stumbles a few steps until he feels grass under his feet and heaves hard, planting his cane between his shoes for stability.

“Oh, geez.”  Foggy’s still on the pavement, caught somewhere between shock and concern.  

Matt vomits again.  He’s in the process of breathing down a dry heave when Foggy pats him on the back and forces the contraction back up.  

“God, I’m sorry,” Foggy says, putting his hand under Matt’s elbow instead.  

“It’s ok,” Matt rasps.  “I just… I don’t know.”

“Yeah.  I don’t know either.”  Foggy lets out a breath.  Somehow that makes it easier for Matt to relax his lungs and let them fill again.  “But when I said loosen up, this isn’t what I had in mind.”  Foggy laughs uncomfortably.  

“Mm-hm.”  Matt coughs.  Then he laughs too.


	11. You just had a seizure, Matt.  You're not OK.

If Matt didn’t know better, he’d say he had the flu.  His head has that spacey underwater feel that comes with an excess of mucous in his sinuses.  Just without the pressure in his ears.  

He can barely focus on the brief he’s reading.  His body must be diverting energy to fight off infection, because there seems to be none to spare for normal work functions.  There’s no evidence of a fever, though.  Matt’s not sweaty.  

He decides it may be a good idea to go to the bathroom and splash his face anyway, or at least rise his mouth.  His tongue feels heavy, and a burned metallic taste hangs around his teeth.  Maybe he chewed up the inside of his cheek in his sleep.  

A quick shift of his jaw confirms that he didn’t, but it makes more sense than going to town on a few spark plugs.  Even an ordinary blind person would think twice before putting something like that in their mouth.  

But apparently Matt isn’t thinking.  His hip bone connects with the door frame on his way out of his office, and a gust of breath leaves his chest before he can quite get a handle on what happened.  

“You ok?”  Foggy calls to him, setting down a stack of papers with a muted shuffle.  Which is odd.  Because Foggy’s rarely muted.  Ever.  

“Yeah…”  Matt says.  It doesn’t hurt.  Not like it would if he was sick.  He actually can’t feel anything.  His lips are numb.  This can’t be right.  

Matt makes to push his glasses up on his nose, but his hand only finds empty air.

“You sure, bud?”

Matt’s going to answer.  He opens his mouth, but it only makes the disgusting mechanical taste mix with saliva and spread.  It’s hideous.  Matt wonders if he’s going to throw up.  

The thought ends abruptly.  Matt doesn’t drop it on purpose; it’s as if his mind is a scratched CD, stopping the song and repeating the same note over and over.  But the note is out of range of his hearing.  Everything is out of range; the whole office, maybe the whole world, is reduced to rushing blood and dog whistles.

Matt doesn’t know how much time passes.  He doesn’t feel himself fall, but when the sound suddenly turns back to normal, his sense of equilibrium does too.  He’s horizontal.  And nauseous.

“Oh my god, ok,” Foggy says in a loud, panicked mumble.  “On your side?  Would that be better?”

Matt doesn’t care.  The movement makes his head spin, but when he starts to vomit, he’s grateful.  

“Ok, breathe.  Breathe, buddy.  We’re calling an ambulance.”  Foggy pats Matt’s shoulder a little too hard.

“No, stop,” Matt chokes.  “I’m ok, I just–”   He gags again, hoping he’s gotten the message across.

“It’s ok.  Don’t talk,” Foggy says.  

“I’m fine,” Matt tries again.

“Matt, you just had a seizure or something.  You’re not calling the shots right now.”  Foggy drags a tissue over Matt’s mouth.  Matt realizes his friend is trembling.  

“Oh.”  Matt swallows, but the lingering metallic taste melds with bile, and he gives up, letting the refuse run off his lips.  “Sorry.”

“Dude…”  The fact that Matt can hear the creak as Foggy shakes his head means he’s on his way back to normal.  But Foggy will need a lot more convincing.  “Just lie still, ok?”

Matt’s still dizzy and sick to his stomach.  Exhausted now, too.  Foggy’s had worse ideas.  “Ok,” he breathes.  “I can do that.”


	12. Matt's too feverish to think and definitely doesn't need another coffee

Matt rests his forehead against his desk.  If he has something to push back at the hideous throb, maybe it won’t ache so much.  There’s a flaw in the logic somewhere, but he doesn’t feel like sussing it out. It’s taking enough brain cells to decide whether or not the coolness of the lacquered wood feels good on his face.  Matt’s shoulders vibrate with shivers he’s almost positive he didn’t have a moment ago.

He’s definitely too cold.  But not just cold; he’s uncomfortable all over.  His clogged nose and raw throat dial his senses of smell and taste down to the minimum threshold of function, but his prickling eardrums and tender skin seem to be picking up everything.  It’s like being halfway in a sensory deprivation tank.

Don’t be a baby about it, Matt thinks.  He props himself up on his elbows. It’s just a cold.  He’s fine. He’s working. But he can’t think of the name of their client for the life of him.  Or the subject of the brief he’s supposed to be reading.

Matt can usually ballpark the passage of time with his productivity, and pinpoint it with the help of biological cues.  But his head is full of fuzz that’s given him zero sum for the workday so far. Matt’s stomach is a toxic minefield of swallowed snot.  He has no idea how close it might be getting to the lunch hour.

There’s coffee on his desk somewhere, but he can’t smell it.  He paws around until he finds the mug, which is stone-cold. The thought of drinking it makes his jaw loose and heavy.  

Bile erupts into his throat before he’s ready for it.  Matt grips the handle of the mug like a lifeline and spits into it, praying this is a one-and-done and he’s not about to set off a round of body-shaking heaves.  He can only taste the sharp edge of the bitterness, but it’s enough to make him nauseous all over again. Matt scrapes his teeth across his tongue.

“Matt?”  His office door opens, and Karen calls his name.  “We’re just about to get lunch…” she trails off. “Are you ok?”

It takes all of Matt’s willpower to set the mug down.  “Yeah,” he chokes. What else can he say? Surely not _I’m getting my ass kicked by a common cold and I just barfed in my coffee cup_.  “I’m fine.”

“You sure?  You don’t look so good.”  Karen approaches the desk and starts straightening up by rote.  “Ugh, you’re still drinking morning coffee?” Her voice takes on the timbre that Matt always imagines is accompanied by a wrinkled nose.  “Let me get you a fresh cup, at least.”

“No, thanks,” Matt says hurriedly.  He takes off his glasses and pushes his fingers into the bridge of his nose, desperate to feel anything but abject disgust.  “Just dump it.”


	13. Matt insists on taking his exams, even with the flu

“There’s a thing called a make-up test,” Foggy explains.  He’s out of breath as he jogs to keep up with Matt, and from the sound of his huffing and puffing, one would think he’s the one with the flu.  “You email the professor and tell him you’re sick.  Then you do the test later.  It’s pretty simple.”

“I know,” Matt replies shortly.  He’s taken enough Dayquil for the inside of his head to feel like a cottonball, and his pockets are stuffed with tissues.  He’s prepared.

“Matt, I’m serious.  If you could see yourself right now…”  Foggy chuckles.  It’s the sound someone makes when they don’t want to say a difficult truth.

“Yeah?”  Matt prompts, tapping his cane against the sidewalk to check his location before he turns toward the law building.

“You just…you don’t look good, buddy.  I know you don’t feel good.”

It’s the truth.  Matt can only confirm the part about how he feels, but he’ll take Foggy’s word for it.  He repeats the same thing he’s been telling himself since the virus first took hold last night.  “It’s my last exam.  Then it’s Thanksgiving break.  I’ll rest when it’s over.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re on your feet.”  Foggy holds the door open, his voice echoing off the law building’s glass facade.  

Matt is, too.  But cold medicine is magical, as is Gatorade.  Acetaminophen, simple carbs, and willpower have proven enough to peel him off the bathroom floor, and he’s keeping his fingers crossed they’ll carry him through this test.  “Well, I am,” he says with a shrug.

“Matt, you didn’t even study,” Foggy says desperately.  “Come on.  Just go back to the dorm and rest.  Do the test later.”

“You didn’t study, either,” Matt shoots back.  The sounds of him retching all night probably hadn’t created an environment conducive to test prep, but he’s on the defensive.  

“Hey, don’t turn it around on me.”  Foggy hefts his backpack.  Even with the fluid collecting in his ears, Matt can hear him looking for his notebook.

“How about a deal, then?  You do you, and I worry about me,” Matt offers.  

“Geez.  Are you a freaking litigator or something?”

“Almost,” Matt replies.


	14. Matt has the flu; Clair offers comfort over the phone

Matt’s up to his ears in drivel, or at least that’s how it feels.  He hears a cacophony of crackles each time he swallows, and he swears there’s thick, bilious fluid dripping down the sides of his head.  It’s just the flu, but he’s miserable.  Honestly, he’s had gunshot wounds that hurt less than the reverberating ache in his ribs.  

“You sure you don’t want me to come over?” Claire asks, her voice more muffled than usual over the phone.  Matt infers the soft paper mask over her nose and mouth.

“No,” he sniffles in reply.  “If you’re working, don’t bother with me.”

“I’m working in a ward full of people with the flu.”

“All the more reason–” Matt breaks off with a cough.  “Don’t spread the germs.”

“Matt.  You have the  _flu_.”  Claire’s hair taps against the phone.  Matt winces at the sound.

“I…yeah.”  He has no argument.  “Yeah.”

“So…chicken soup when I get off?”

“…yeah…”

 

 


End file.
